


back to the place where we began

by husbandcoded



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist Jonathan Sims, Background Sasha James/Tim Stoker, Fix-It of Sorts, Incomplete, M/M, Time Travel, as of now this fic is abandoned, if youre perusing my profile for whatever reason. please god dont read this., love and light, not much plot we're all about character dynamics and self indulgent catharsis here, thats right its one of those
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:27:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23542342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/husbandcoded/pseuds/husbandcoded
Summary: No, the Archivist is not sure why he is here. But he remembers this day.He remembers kicking an old spare lighter across the floor of his flat that morning. He remembers taking deep, steadying breaths, trying to convince himself that being 'head' of anything is something he is cut out for. He remembers the click of the tape recorder when he sat down to record.He remembers...No, wait.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Sasha James & Jonathan Sims
Comments: 122
Kudos: 577





	1. chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> it is 3:40 AM where I am when I am posting this! no beta we die like fools.
> 
> edit: here I am, nearly a month later, fixing up some parts of this first chapter to make it more plot-accessible so I can make the story going forward more interesting. we'll see how that turns out. nothing drastic, just the ending of the chapter and a few lines i wasn't quite happy with. on the whole, it remains the same as how i initially published it.

It had been roughly one minute and seventeen seconds since the being formerly known as Jonathan Sims had arrived (or rather, had his conscience thrust violently back into his body) at the Magnus Institute, London. This was poor timing, because it happened to have occurred the moment the man had sat down to record his first statement as head Archivist. 

The statement in question (long since abandoned) lays on the top of a nearly bare work desk, and is all the man can keep his eyes on as his vision blurs.

Shock keeps him paralyzed as the tape recorder whirs on. His chest heaves, and he feels sweat dampen his brow as he searches his mind. Needing to Know. Needing to Understand. He has to figure out where. And why. (And also how, but he can deal with that one later.)

Starting with an easy one.

Who am I?

The Archives. 

No, that wasn't quite right. Maybe in another life. Maybe years in the future or minutes in the past, but that wasn't him yet.

Archivist?

Closer, but he wasn't sure he liked that name very much.

Jon. Jonathan? 

Yes, that sounds right. 

And it all comes pouring back in, a stream of consciousness novel of memories. 

He is Jonathan Sims. The Archivist. Current? Former. Soon-to-be? Archive. Jon. 5' 7", dark brown hair. He has glasses, and his eyes hurt like hell and he gets headaches when he doesn't wear them. Born 1987. Orphaned. Not a fan of spiders. No, more than that... 

The Archivist. Gertrude Robinson's replacement. Killed. Both him and Gertrude. Him by fire, Gertrude by,

Magnus.  
Yes, Jonah will need to be dealt with.

Just recalling the man's name makes him burn with fury. Jonathan Sims was never a violent man, and the Archivist was always keen to avoid violence if he could. But he feels, believes, knows, with conviction, that no matter how awful the ends, Jonah would most certainly deserve it.

And these are his archives. 

So he knows who he is and where, but the why and how and are still unclear. 

He feels as though he's floating in his chair, feet firmly planted on the ground.

The Archivist Knows who he is. Knows where he is. Knows it is 2015. Knows this is when he took his first steps, unknowingly, and against his will, to becoming the Archive.

All twenty-four ribs still intact. That makes him giggle, although he's not sure why, and the sound is so foreign it startles him. 

No, the Archivist is not sure why he is here. But he remembers this day. 

He remembers kicking an old spare lighter across the floor of his flat that morning. He remembers taking deep, steadying breaths, trying to convince himself that being 'head' of anything is something he is cut out for. He remembers the click of the tape recorder when he sat down to record. 

He remembers...

He remembers Martin biting his lip and pacing anxiously in the breakroom. Remembers Sasha organizing her desk. Tim googling the name of a show someone in artifact storage had recommended to him. Something American that had its final season in the past month.

He remembers the smug satisfaction in Elias's eyes as he watches his new Archivist, 

No, wait. 

These are not memories. These are things that have happened and things that are happening. Things he just happens to Know without having to check or be present.

He feels sick. 

Shifting in his chair he becomes aware of his body. The pain in his back. How uncomfortable he is, physically. It's been a long time since his body was anything like this. Being here, right now, as he is... It's all a bit like trying to put a ball of play doh you've frankensteined together with other colors back into its original tin. You've added some and taken some away. Sculpted it and set it out to dry. And now it's hardened and just won't fit back inside unless you break some pieces off again.

Bile rises in the Archivist's throat as he looks over his arms. None of the pockmark scars and picked at skin from… whenever it was before (after?) now remain. The burn that once covered his hand completely absent. The rolled up sleeves of his plain grey dress shirt cover where some of the scars would have been, and he rolls the shirt up further just to check. 

Still none there. 

A headache is on its way now. It comes to him fast, like an unexpected but violent storm. Everything spins as layers of himself collapse and fold in on eachother. He has a feeling the glasses he's wearing are only making it worse, so he takes them off. Everything is bright and sharp, even in the poorly-lit office. 

He feels it in and behind his eyes the worst. They ache and swell, and every second is like a nail being driven into the center of his head. Like metal rods being hammered directly between his eyes. He recalls, bizarrely (memories still falling into place like bits of nickel being drawn to a magnet), his limited experience with construction. Making a birdhouse or something like that for his grandmother. Thinks about how the wood was always rough, because he never went through the trouble of sanding it down, never bothering to listen to other people's advice, and left splinters in his fingers. He imagines a cracked and splintered block of wood being slammed over his head, imagines the individual pieces of the fractured planks sticking out of his eye sockets. In his pain and delirium the mental image of it makes him angry and disgusted with himself. Why didn't he just sand down the wood? This all could've been avoided if he used his common sense. He wouldn't have splinters in his hands and eyes, and everyone would still be alive. Sasha would still be, Sasha would...

Sasha.

Sasha, the real one, is still here.

That makes him sharply inhale and stretch his jaw. Register the crunching sound it makes as the muscles in his neck strain.  
He just has to breathe. To unclench his jaw, relax his shoulders. Regain some of his composure and 'pop a pill' as it were.  
(Though what good that will do, he's unsure.)

Shaky hands find ibuprofen in his shoulderbag and he swallows it dry. He's not quite ready to go out to the breakroom for a glass of water, to risk facing anyone yet.

So. What does he know? It's 2015. Sasha James is still alive, Timothy Stoker still tolerates him, and, and Martin still hasn't had his run-in with Prentiss. Or grieved as his friends died one by one. Or, met Peter Lukas. 

Tim still hadn't died in the Unknowing. 

And bloody Sasha. 

The Archivist wants to sob. Actually, upon further consideration, he might already be. Running his hands over his face he feels the moisture gathering in his eyes and allows himself to begin weeping in earnest. Taking big gasping breaths. Tears flow freely for the first time in who even knows how long. (He knows. He knows exactly how long it's been.) He unbuttons his shirt, just a little, allowing himself space to breathe. He just can't deal with tight, with choking, with close right now. 

Pinching his nose and running a hand through his hair, he lowers himself to the ground. Leans carefully against the cool metal of a filing cabinet. Doesn't hear all the noise he's making through the ringing, not-ringing nothing in his ears. Everything is tinny and light, except him. He is being dragged down, pulled into the dirty wooden floor by the weight of his exhaustion and sorrow, dust gathering on his pleated cuffs.

He is drowning. 

And he is saved by,

A knock on the door. 

It's Martin. He knows that. Doesn't even have to push around for the answer. In fact it's not something he Knows. He just recognizes the knock. 

Just that alone almost starts him going again, fresh tears gathering in his eyes. The fact that something so small is what identifies him. It makes him recall all those little things about each other they'd come to learn in that short time they had. Before everything went Wrong. 

The sound of Martin's sock covered feet on the safehouse floor in the evening. The gentle sighs at night and in the morning when Jon crawled into bed with him. Martin's favorite shops in London, childhood friends, opinions on literature. Hopes and aspirations he'd had before he'd started working at the institute. (Fears too, but Jon didn't like to think about those.)  
Martin likes his tea with 1 spoonful of milk, 1 spoonful of sugar. Martin has a few of his nan's particularly good (and simple) recipes memorized. Martin, Martin...

That, and It's been so long since he's seen him like this. Young and optimistic. Outgoing, in his own way. But still lonely. He knows now, hindsight being what it is, how much of Martin's overbearing kindness back then was born of his fear of rejection. Of isolation. The thought makes his stomach roil with guilt and grief. 

"Erm, Jon?"

A beat, Jon waits carefully.  
"Yegh. Urgh." He clears his throat. Puts more confidence into his response than he's feeling. 

"Yes?"

"Are you...are you okay? In there? It's only that we heard a lot of noise, and um, were worried."

Ah.  
"Yes erm, nasty h- hm. dropped something on the floor. My glasses. Can't very well see without them, ha… Got them now though. No need for concern." 

One thing about Jon that hadn't changed between starting to work at the institute and becoming whatever he is now was his complete inability to spin a feasible lie.

"...Okay, if you're sure." 

Jon hums the affirmative. Although it's doubtful whether Martin can hear him or not from the floor.

"Well um, Tim, Sasha, and I were going to pop out for lunch later, if you'd like to join us." 

Jon really, really would. 

But he's only just come to. And he needs to get his bearings and work out a plan going forward. And he's not entirely sure what's happened to him yet (besides being thrown years in the past with no memory of how he got to be there and no guide, of course).

And… he doesn't think he can face any of them yet. Especially not over a cafe table. 

"T-thank you Martin. For the offer. But I've ah, got work to catch up on. You know how messy the archives are at the moment."  
Hm.  
"Although actually uh, I'm not, not feeling well. I think, I think I may ask to take the day off." 

Jon can almost hear Martin's brow crease with worry. "Are you sure you're okay? I mean, besides," 

"Mmhm." He interrupts, unconvincing in his delivery.  
"Quite alright. Just a bit of a stomach bug. Came on suddenly, you know how these things can be. So I think I'll be off in a bit, wouldn't want anyone else to catch it."

From what Jon knows of Martin, he's fighting the urge to open the door. 

"...Alright. You, you take care of yourself Jon. I hope you feel better soon." And then the sound of retreating footsteps as Martin heads back to the assistant's office, and Jon can finally breathe again.

______________

Jon ends up sending Elias an email, stating he 'feels unwell' and requesting two days sick leave. 

He doesn't bother to check for a response as he gathers his things and heads out the institute door. If it seems out of character for Jon? Then so be it. 

He recognizes, of course, that until he has everything he needs it'd be best to stay off Elias's radar, but he's quite honestly too tired to care. Years at the institute have worn him down to someone who thinks very little of the value of his own life. He scoffs to himself a bit at that as he boards the tube (And he can see them all. The woman next to him has a statement about the Buried. The person one car down, texting their girlfriend? They've had a run in with the Flesh.), It's not like he thought very highly of himself before he took a job at the institute either. 

But in this moment? Jon isn't terribly worried, for once in his life. He hasn't properly done anything to threaten Jonah's plan yet (besides delaying it a couple days while he's out sick), so he doesn't think it should be a problem. A strange calm has settled over him, which doesn't break, even as he makes eye contact with a terrified man he knows has a statement about the eye. He looks away first, it's only polite. 

Keeping Jonah out of his mind while he's in the institute may be a problem... and even now, Jon can faintly sense the man. Searching, frustrated. Whether that's a testament to his own power (which has been returning to him slowly but surely as he became more and more aware of his surroundings) or just how far Jonah's gaze reaches remains to be seen, but either way it means that Jon will need to keep his head down. His breakdown today likely brought attention to himself, and may have left himself vulnerable to Jonah's sight. There's no telling what the man knows now, and Jon would hate to show his hand so early by Asking. 

The Archivist sighs, having reached the door of his old flat. He takes a moment to just look at the door. Feels the floorboards creak as he shifts from foot to foot. The hallway has that stiff, old smell he never thought he could actually miss. 

He has to shake the key in the lock a bit to get the door to open, but it swings open eventually with a 'click'. Pulling himself up, squaring his shoulders, Jon looks over his flat. There's...well, there's still things in it. It's still a home, of sorts. His grandmother's old furniture and decor, mostly. He never really minded it. It was practical, and had some sentimental value as well, he supposes. Taking another breath, he braces himself.

The moment he steps inside and pulls the door shut behind him, his resolve dissipates. It's all too much. The headache is back again and breathing is becoming increasingly difficult. Every time he thinks about who he is, or where he is, or the every present question of why this is where he is, it's like another blow to the chest.

But he keeps taking them. Because he has to Know. He has to know. Not just for the sake of knowing, but so he can do it right this time. Has to know the rules so he doesn't break them. If someone or something has sent him back, he thinks, throwing his bag over a chair, then it's very likely there were conditions. 

By the time Jon makes it to his bed he can hardly stand, and he's swaying slightly. He realizes then, that he hasn't eaten all day. And he's still not hungry. Well. Not for food, anyways.

"A bad sign, m'st likely" he mumbles as he falls into his mattress, foregoing a shower or his nighttime routine in favor of just being able to lay down. The mattress is hard, and his blankets and pillows are no more familiar to him than any comfort at this point. It would be false to say it was the most tired he's felt In a long time, because exhaustion on this scale is nothing new to him. It's become a part of him. He slept very little in the time between his...becoming and the end of the world, partially to spare those whose statement he had taken, though he wasn't sure if their nightmares were a consequence of his sleeping, or something that would persist even if he got his 8 hours. Better to at least try, to prevent the nightmares then risk it, he reasoned. So he had taken to napping during the day. No longer than 3 hours at a time, usually in Daisy's company. Whether or not it benefited his...victims, he never did find out, but he'd like to think it was worth it.

Would like to think that he wasn't just punishing himself.

The bed is cold and empty without Martin.

Martin.

He'd been there for him right I till the end. To keep him in check. To hold his hand. To scold him when his thoughts turned to, when he though...should have just done it. Should have taking the opportunity when it first emerged and Quit. (And even sleep deprived as he is, he can feel the Eye rear its head at that. As close to affronted as the concept of a fear can be.)

All of that...He doesn't want to think about it.

And his eyes are growing heavy, his limbs melting into the mattress as he knows that in moments he'll slip away. Digging himself deeper under his comforter and his Nan's old wool blanket, he drifts off, not quite peacefully, but blissfully unaware of the other sets of eyes trained up at him from the small web under his dresser.


	2. you are not immune to eye powers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just a little filler chapter/jon figuring some stuff out ::::)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, slapping paragraphs together, trying to create some semblance of a narrative without any forethough: oh this is so incoherent babe keep it up

Consciousness came slowly, but pain quickly followed. 

Skin, previously unmarked, had stretched and peeled during the night. The flesh and tissue of the Archivist's right hand appeared to have burned and healed in the span of hours, reassuming a familiar scarred pattern. He didn’t even need to touch his face to know the old circular scars were there once again. It was almost comforting. Almost. Though if he thought about it for long enough he could still feel the larvae squirming under his skin. Burrowing, making their home,

No, not comforting then. 

With a groan the Archivist stretches in bed, cracking joints and becoming reacquainted with the way his body moves. An aching in his leg tells him he’ll be wanting a cane. His growing headache tells him to make his way to the medicine cabinet.

Wincing as he stands, he heads to the kitchen for a glass of water, peeling off his sleepshirt on the way. It’s soaked through with sweat, and while frankly he’s got bigger problems at the moment than his own personal comfort, he’d much rather face beings of fear and apocalypse-inclined bosses on his own terms: with a clean face and wearing a cardigan. 

Ergo: some Ibuprofen and a shower.

One look in the bathroom mirror is all the Archivist needs to fold in on himself with a groan. 

“Oh you’ve, mh.” He runs a hand over his face. “Got to be kidding me.” 

Eyes. 

Many, many, eyes. Or at least more than a human being reasonably should have.

Eyes on his stomach, eyes on his arms. Eyes where there once were scars, bubbling up from under blistered skin. Eyes that blink up at him as he closes his own and takes a deep breath. 

“Right, Right! Right.”

Deep sigh.

“...Alright.”

The eyes all focus on him now. Or rather, on his image in the mirror. They're part of him now, he supposes. No use denying that. 

And then. The eyes catch a movement from the corner of the room, left of the base of the tub. 

Eight small pointed legs.

A Noble False Widow. Crawling up the shower curtain, and staring right at him.

Right, this might as well happen. 

A sort of heaviness falls over him, and the eyes now embedded in his skin droop. 

_Wouldn't he like to pick her up? It'd be much nicer to talk face to face, wouldn't it?_

And he can't process how bizarre any of this is right now. Because he's honestly seen stranger, and he feels a bit warm, and not entirely sure he's in control of his own limbs. So compelled by forces beyond his own, he finds himself scooping her up gently from the curtain. Cradling her in his palms. He couldn't do the feeling justice by trying to describe it, but something about the weight of the spider's gaze makes the anxiety from seconds before melt away, and his instincts fail him. Unable to find it in himself to flinch when the spider's legs brush over his veins, he thinks nothing of it when it bites down. 

Hard.

And it hurts. But everything's a little bit woozy still. Maybe more so now with the venom coursing through his body. The Archivist thinks he might be afraid, or indignant, but it's hard to tell, because despite the strength of the spider's bite, the physical pain is secondary to the waves of memories that wash over and around the island of his mind. 

Now he’s starting to _really_ remember. More pieces are falling into place as he makes his way to his couch. Beyond who he is. What he is. The why and how start to fit together. 

A plan. Well, an idea. Strung together at the end of it all. 

Martin had been there. Spinning his own little web for him and Jon. They'd sat and planned this. The both of them going back to the Beginning. The early days. Making things right as much as they could, or preventing Jonah's ritual, at the very least. They'd had it all worked out. 

But something had gone wrong. 

Martin was supposed to be here.   
The warmth is starting to wear off now, and unthinkingly, the Archivist picks nervously at the eyes on his forearm. It doesn't hurt. In fact despite poking one of his new arm-eyes directly in the caruncle, he feels nothing. None of this registers, however, as the Archivist is still deep in thought.

The spider has made her way up his arm, and now rests comfortably on his shoulder. Content. Her job is done. 

A recorder whirs in the Archivst's lap, and with a start he considers it. 

"A statement...y-yes I think that might help sort my thoughts. I, hm." 

One deep breath and he begins. 

"Statement of the Ar- no." 

"Statement of Jonathan Sims regarding…the end of the world and the subsequent actions taken to remedy it." 

\----------------------

"Statement ends." 

"That was, well. Helpful. I feel stronger too, as well. Interesting. Something worth thinking about I suppose. Now that that's on record I'd like to- oh." 

The familiar weight of Magnus's eye falls on him, roiling and sharp like crude oil in water. 

So much for avoiding Jonah’s attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all sm for the kind comments on the last chapter! I'm sorry for not responding to all of them but they truly mean the world to me.


	3. oh ouch my head its 3 am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jon's first week back at the archives + georgie!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a new chapter that barely moves the plot forward! nice! (I just wanted an excuse to write Georgie in, but don't tell anyone I said that :] )

The plan is laid out in a small spiral bound notebook. Though to call it a plan would be generous. Jon’s column of bullet points better resembles a drunk’s shopping list than any great, well thought out scheme. 

So perhaps it would be more accurate to say that “a vague idea of what is to be done was hastily put down on paper," and now a bone-deep tiredness had settled over the Archivist.

With a sigh, Jon creases his last written page back so it realigns itself with the binding and throws the book down onto his coffee table. There’s too much to think about. Too many things to keep in mind. Even if the knowledge that Magnus was watching his every move didn’t weigh heavily on his shoulders, putting this all together by himself was absolutely exhausting.

Not that it would be simple if he had someone with him, it was only that…

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Martin was supposed to be here with him. And while he has a...tentative deal of sorts with the Web, he knows by now that he alone is generally not the best at manipulation. (Knowledge that had contributed to his decision to eventually tell his assistants about the fears and, well… _everything_. Directly.) Besides, he’s almost certain the Mother already has her own agenda. There had been no objection to Martin and his plan. No mental block preventing them from putting it in place. Which, from the Web, was a ringing endorsement in and of itself. But that had been in the Eye’s place, and it’s hard to work behind the curtain when someone is always watching. There had been incentive to change things. Things are different now, in this pre-beheld world. And while his own continued blindness to the Web’s machinations is...less than ideal. It's to be expected. 

He tentatively reaches behind him to the head of the couch and strokes a single finger along the back of Theresa’s skull patterned abdomen. Theresa, the spider. The corner of Jon’s mouth turns up a bit at that. Martin had insisted on naming each of the myriad spiders they two had encountered in those apocalyptic lands. Drawn to Martin, much like a moth to flame. It was ridiculous, and Jon was almost certain he only did it to try and...put him at ease with the truly horrifying amount of spiders they found. Humanize them maybe, something like that. But regardless, Jon saw no reason to put an end to the tradition now. If Martin was no longer with him,

...No. No that line of thought would do him no good. To focus, is what he needs. Who knows what Magnus will do now that he’s aware of Jon’s...situation. Murder is...unlikely. Neither of them are strictly mortal anymore, and Jon is, even now, tied to the institute. To the panopticon. Whether or not Elias had been bluffing back then, Jon still isn’t sure. He’s not even sure Magnus himself knows. Hm. Not even Magnus knows...

From that, something of an answer makes itself apparent. Like the beginning stitch. The first step in the morning.

A bit of knowledge to keep to himself, then. If he could dissimulate knowing the answer. Pretend to know a way around Jonah’s self-made immortality. It would be possible to leverage that. Use Jonah’s own lack of perception as a sort of insurance. If he could do that, he could maybee throw his weight around the institute and get some better security. Even help some institute staff get out, and find new jobs. The less people unknowingly tied to the Eye, the better. He just needs to act the part.

Affecting intelligence. Yes, that’s something he’s quite good at.

Jon sets his pen down momentarily on the table. Picks it up again. Puts the end of it between his teeth. Pulls his legs up onto the couch with him. Takes the pen in his hand and clicks it a couple times. Picks his notebook up once again. Skims obsessively the few words he already has written, which read as follows:

  * get in contact with georgie again, miss her
  * tell martin, sasha, tim?????? they deserve to know.
  * ^provide them with relevant tapes first, or later? a gamble whether tim and sasha will react more positively if given reason to listen beforehand. 
  * ^using compulsion….bad idea. 
  * naomi herne will give her statement in the next couple of months, offer assistance
  * ~~prevent helen being taken?~~ prevent helen being taken
  * one year till sasha encounters michael
  * tea, bread, more pain relief meds, ~~pack of marlb~~ cane, bandages. shop down the road and chemists
  * jane prentiss ?



Truthfully, not much. Which isn’t helped by the fact that anything related to actively stopping Magnus will need to remain in his head or be committed to tape when he’s out of his sight. He can’t risk the whole world just because his organizational system demands it. Maybe at one point he could afford such carelessness, back before he became aware of the who and what and where of the world and his place in it. As the man he had been… a day or years ago. But not anymore. 

Frustrated, Jon picks up his pen once more to add “Fuck you, Jonah” before getting up to fix himself some tea. 

Fishing through a box of miscellaneous bags and packets of loose leaf, Jon thinks about himself. This version of himself. How young he was, really, in the face of it all. Can’t help but kick himself a bit when he thinks of how underqualified he was for the position. He should have done the bigger thing, and admitted he wasn’t qualified. Let someone else have it. 

Of course in looking back, he knew that was rather the point. Jonah needed someone who was underqualified. Someone who needed to learn their job as they went along. Someone with...little to no connections outside of work. 

Jon sighs as he grabs a mug and fills it with water from the sink. Tosses in a sachet of Earl Grey. 

Watching the yellow light of the microwave, he confronts a thought that hadn’t occurred to him before.

“Did I...Did I kill me?” almost embarrassed by how juvenile that had sounded, he feels the need to continue the thought aloud.

“Certainly… as far as I know, that. _This_ version of me is gone, now. This is his body. Though...with some clear changes.” he flexes his wrist against the counter. It makes an unsatisfying pop. 

“It is possible, my coming here was a sort of..spiritual _and_ physical death for this other me. I…It’s almost poetic.” 

Before he can consider whether a service of some kind is in order, the microwave beeps and he’s taking steadying sips of tea. Back in the land of the living.

_____________

Georgie's number is still in his phone after all these years, just as it had been last time. He sends her a quick text, asking if she'd be willing to reconnect, and maybe even meet up soon. Through all this, Jon had decided, he was going to be the one to reach out for once. It may have taken several trauma-filled years and the literal apocalypse for the message to transmit, let alone be accepted and taken at face value, but Jon had read it loud and clear. It was the waves that had lapped at his heels in the lonely, the fog that curled around his body and made it damp with the cold, that had solidified it for him. He had been scared then, and angry. Angry for Martin. Angry _at_ Martin. Angry at Peter, and Elias, and _deeply_ afraid of losing someone he cared about. Of them not having someone there for them. 

And sometimes, even the one who watches needs to be seen. Not like the supernatural, malevolent, voyeuristic gaze of fear. But felt. Known. 

He only wishes he had understood that before he had let paranoia worm its way into his brain. Played into Elias's hand and pushed Tim and Martin away. Even before then, really. 

So he's intent to 'get it right' now. The whole saving the world business, but also the whole 'being a decent person, if not a good friend' bit.

It's a relief he didn't even know he had been waiting for when Georgie, playfully irritated at his being out of touch for so long, responds several hours later. She grills him on how he's been, shares some pictures of her new cat; the Admiral, and plans are made to meet up next weekend. 

______________

Jon's first day back at the archives consisted entirely of him avoiding his assistants and digging through old statements, trying to find the real ones so he could fit them into his own archiving system. 

Jon's second day back at the archives was much the same. 

And so the week went on. Anytime he could sense Elias coming around to talk with him, he would step out under the pretense of being on a smoke break. Or having to use the restroom. He knew Jonah could see right through it, of course, which almost made the whole thing incredibly funny. Actually, it was a bit. The frustrated scowl that Jonah tried to subdue whenever Jon made his excuses was nearly cathartic. 

The most direct acknowledgment of his sudden change in appearance had come from Rosie, who had simply asked about his scarred hand when she handed him some form to sign, and immediately let it go when he waved the question away. He didn't miss the intent look on Tim's face when he caught him staring, and Martin's frown at his 'bandaged' arms and face. It was so cartoonish he almost laughed, actually. But he didn't. 

Seeing Sasha, the _real_ Sasha again was… well he wasn't quite sure what to do with himself. So he avoided her. And Martin. And Tim. All under the guise of getting more work done and fixing up his archives. _His_ archives. Hm. 

He'd tell them all eventually. Martin, Sasha, Tim. He really would. This was just the one week, he reasoned. Just a little more time to collect himself.

Yes, he would tell them soon. 

______________

"Jon, why are you looking at me like that?"

"I, what?" Jon asks eloquently, startled out of his 'checking to make sure all is well' trance.

"Like I've...I don't know. We haven't spoken in _years_ and now you want to reconnect out of nowhere. If this is some long con booty call then-" 

And there's humor in it. It's obviously a joke, Georgie knows there's more going on here. Something Jon's not saying. And she's smiling that way she always used to. It melts some of the remaining anxiety that's been fizzing in his stomach and under his skin. He's remembering now (not that he'd ever forgotten) how lovely a person Georgie is. And will continue to be. 

But still, following the conversational script. Obeying muscle memory. He's compelled to interrupt. To play mortified. 

"Georgie! No, I uh, just missed you. I felt like," 

He pauses. It's been much longer for him than it has been for Georgie, but it should...probably still he addressed.

"Well first of all, I want to apologize for how we broke things off. This isn't me begging you to take me back! For the record." He says when he sees Georgie's skeptical, but still amused look. 

"I'd assumed so. I would've expected roses." 

Jon smiles a bit at that, unbearably fond. But still cautious. Last he'd seen Georgie she hadn't been thrilled to see him. Understandably so. And the conversation he needs (Wants, he reminds himself. He doesn't have to do this. But if anyone outside of the archives would get it, it would be Georgie.) to have isn't fair to her. It isn't fair at all. He shouldn't put this on her, especially after trying her hospitality so much in another time. He wasn't the most perceptive man, but it was hard to miss the melancholic looks Georgie seemed to reserve for the backsplash in her kitchen sink. Or those late evenings when they had sat by the telly, head on eachothers' shoulders. Holding each other up. Georgie carried the both of them, most of the time. And the expression on her face when he had knocked on their door. Georgie and Melanie's door. 

"Jokes aside, I'm sorry too. I wish we could've been a bit more adult about it."

"Hm." A hum of sincere acknowledgement. There's not much to say to that. At least, nothing Jon knows _how_ to say. So, tentatively he proceeds.

"And...as you've probably guessed," he takes a deep breath and pulls at his ear, trying to figure out the best way to get the words out. 

"there's something else I'd like to talk to you about. But it requires a level of privacy not generally supplied by public businesses." 

She's still looking at him, brow furrowed.

"I realize how that sounds! I swear I'm not... grooming you for a cult, or something. It's just that something. 'Important', I suppose, has happened to me recently. And I'd rather not talk about it in public." 

"Alright… do you want to go back to my flat? It's only a couple blocks back." 

"Yes, that would be great. Thank you, Georgie." 

They stay a bit longer to finish up their food, and Jon takes a moment to truly appreciate how mundane it all is. The table they're sat at is rusted and unstable on the brickwork outside the shop, and every so often a bit of the late afternoon sun will reflect off the metallic surface, catching him in the eye and momentarily blinding him. Once his last chip is gone, he takes a deep breath. It's brisk out, and the air fills up his lungs as he huffs a laugh. He pulls his wool scarf loose a bit, because despite the chill, it's about as pleasant as spring in London can get, and he wants to appreciate it. Wants to breathe in the cool air a bit more, before he has to go back to his world of fear cults and rituals. Before he drags Georgie back in with him. 

With not quite a nod, he and Georgie are pushing their metal chairs in and walking to her flat. 

It's less organized than Jon had expected. Although truth be told, he hadn't expected anything beyond it just looking like it had the last time he had been over. There's boxes stacked up in the corners, and the whole room smells like fresh paint. Faintly dusty, and a bit itchy. The walls are bare, no pictures, no posters. Only an old tapestry Jon knows is a family heirloom, and one or two decorative cutting boards in her bare-bones kitchen. The first thing he noticed when he stepped through the door had been a simple patterned couch. The same couch Georgie had when he was staying with her. 

"I only just moved in", Georgie says in a way of explanation, not apologetic in the least. Jon just nods, unbelievably grateful to have no extra prying eyes in on their conversation via the decor. 

"So, Jon. You wanted to tell me something." 

Georgie gestures to the couch as she pulls out a packet of biscuits and fits one between her teeth. Eternally grateful to her for putting the words out there, Jon considers what he wants to say as he settles in. It's not that he hadn't had time to think about it. He'd had plenty of time to turn the words over and over in his mind the past week. In between avoiding Magnus and not making eye contact with his assistants, (he would reach out to them soon! He really would.) he had plenty of time. It's only that, the words he has to say are so important, he spent little to no time thinking about his actual phrasing.

Or where to start. He had never been a 'rip the plaster off' sort of man. 

But, he's already gotten this far. So, he tries. 

He starts with the time travel bit. That's probably the only way to frame this whole thing. He explains the institute, next. Then details the fourteen. Georgie sits, thoughtful. Taking it all in. When it comes to explaining… _his_ whole deal, Jon chokes. And Georgie is there, rubbing circles into the flannel on his back. He can't quite read her expression, because he's not facing her now, hasn't been this whole time, really. And he's still talking. But he's sure that thoughtful expression hasn't changed. Maybe there's a bit of pity in there as well. Hah. 

When he's done and his breathing starts to even out, Georgie hums. "Jon. Can I give you a hug."

Nodding, Jon leans back into her arms. Closed eyes dry from the tears he hadn't realized were threatening to spill. 

"I did think all the bandages were odd, but I didn't want to say anything." She murmurs into his back, and Jon barks out a wet laugh. 

"Hm. I appreciate your tact." 

Georgie is warm, and her hold is steady. There's more they need to talk about, but for now Jon is content to stay on Georgie's familiar old-new couch, hands absentmindedly tracing the back of her shirt collar.

They sit like that for a while. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry to tell you this Jon, but to make friends you actually have to talk to people. I know. I was shocked when I found out too.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some martin pov :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos on my work please please please please please hello im nothing

Bracing himself, Martin knocks on Jon's office door. "Jon, would you like some tea?" 

A hum emanates from inside the room. Martin takes that as a yes. 

The door slides open easily on old hinges, and when he pulls it closed behind him with his free hand Jon looks up at him, startled. The faint grey at his temples more pronounced than ever.

It had been maybe a little over two weeks since Jon had come back from his sick leave? Not that Martin was keeping track of or paying special attention to his employees' schedule and personal lives but... it was notable because of the change in Jon's behavior that had followed. 

Two days gone from the institute out sick, and Jon comes back seemingly a different person. New bandages, strange pockmark scars and burns aside, (which, Martin doesn’t want to judge. Any number of things could’ve happened. Bad traffic accident or, well, who knows. It’s clearly something Jon isn’t keen to talk about. But he can’t deny he’s not just a little bit curious. The bandages are _everywhere_ ) his whole demeanor just sort of, well...

Martin didn’t know Jon well enough before transferring to the archives to really be the judge of his character. But the first weeks he had spent in meetings with him going over their expected workload, and brief moments when Jon had emerged from his office for breaks had given him the general picture. A little brittle. Not overly friendly, but not someone who went out of his way to be cruel. Not intentionally. Tim and Sasha knew him better, actually. Having worked with him in research. Tim had been the one to notice the changes first. Though he didn’t say anything outright, Martin could tell he was a little more cautious around Jon now. 

Which was...concerning. Martin had asked Tim, ‘if anything was wrong? If he was feeling alright?’ But Tim had just smiled slightly and brushed it off, and Martin didn’t want to push. Or smother.

Jon had set a file on Tim’s desk the other day, and in his hurry to get back to his office accidentally knocked over the stack of books he’d been pouring over. Tim, already in a bad mood, had yelled out “Fucking hell, Jon!”, before realizing what he had said. Though Tim was sheepish and apologetic, Jon stepped back violently as though hit. Quickly he had scooped up the books and placed them back where they had been, throwing a sincere “I’m sorry, Tim.” over his shoulder and slammed the door behind him. The whole interaction had left Tim (and Martin, who had been watching it all play out from his desk) more than a little confused. 

But he’s less...prickly now. Which doesn’t help the small part of Martin’s brain that finds him just a tiny bit handsome. And it’s sad, probably, how just a bit of genuine kindness from someone he...is interested in makes him feel warm all over. But he’ll take it over outright animosity any day.

Jon smiles openly now (when given reason to), something fragile and genuine- despite how hard he may try to hide it behind a bandaged hand or rolled up sleeve. He'd started handing out 'thank you's and 'good work's like there were too many of them caught in his throat and he had to cough them all out. But they just kept coming. Despite Jon's becoming..more reclusive, the time actually spent with his assistants when handing out their workload and on break was almost companionable. Just the other day, Martin had heard him laugh. (Which, when Martin thinks about it: it’s almost hilarious how monumental that seems.)

Tim and Martin had been joking around yesterday about Tim's flat and certain, ah. Activities that had transpired there. 

"Don't get me wrong, Tim. I respect you, and also agree with the sentiment. Which is why I don't think that when people say "'fuck landlords' that's what they mean."

Jon, who had been walking past back to his desk then, let out a startled bark of laughter. Tim had turned to Martin and raised his eyebrows as soon Jon closed his office door behind him. Mouthing 'did you see that' with faux-awe. Martin only rolled his eyes and turned back to his work, trying to calm himself and cool the embarrassed and proud flush on his face. Because Jon had laughed at one of his jokes, and Jon had a nice voice. And it was tragic that Martin was even remotely attracted to him, nice voice or no. But the fact remained.

It was still odd, though. The dramatic shift in Jon’s behavior. Certainly not bad, but... different. 

“Martin." Jon says as he reaches out to take the mug Martin had been extending towards him. "Thank you." 

And it's almost reverent, the way he says it. Accidentally brushing hands and avoiding Martin's eyes. Martin tries not to think about it. He just nods.

Jon takes a sip, sets the mug down, and turns back to his work. His glasses, hanging from a dark chain around his neck, hit the front of his desk as he slides his chair in further. Absentmindedly, Jon picks at his forearm under his long turtleneck sleeves, and Martin could almost swear he sees something _move_ under his sleeve when he does that. 

Blinking the thought away, Martin turns back to the door. And Jon’s once again too engrossed in his work to notice, so he slips away, back to his own desk. 

Sure, it was all a little weird, but Martin didn’t think it was anything truly suspicious. It wasn’t like Jon had murdered someone. So they all carried on working. Everything was fine. 

It wasn’t until the Wednesday of Jon’s third week back that things became truly strange.

______________

Martin looked up from his research as Mr. Bouchard made his way down the hall towards the Archivist’s door. He looked… well, professional as ever, but ruffled. Somewhat agitated. A bit like the sort of irritated villain you see in cartoons when their plan has gone off the rails. Martin bit down a laugh at the thought.

With a cordial nod to Sasha and Tim (shrugging on their jackets to head out for their lunch break) and Martin, Mr. Bouchard raises his fist to knock on Jon’s office door, only for the door to slide open seconds before the anticipated knock. 

“Elias. Please, come in.”

Being taken off guard, however momentarily, seems to ruffle Mr. Bouchard further. His response is short and clipped. “Jon. I would like to have a word with you.”

Jon glances out to the assistants’ office, skimming the room, clearly avoiding making eye contact with any of them before gesturing to Elias and pulling the door tight behind him.

“Right. May I ask what about?” Sardonic. Martin can almost hear the raised eyebrow in his voice.

Tim and Sasha exchange a look, but don’t say anything. 

“Alright well, see you Martin.” Tim says as he and Sasha step through the door frame. Martin hums in acknowledgment, waving goodbye over his shoulder. He turns his attention back to his laptop, intent to finish what he had started before unpacking his lunch. 

He can’t help but hear, however, a faint conversation. Their voices are muffled now, from behind the door. 

Muffled, but still audible. Martin can make out the sound of Jon (presumably) sinking into his office chair. 

“I see you’ve accumulated some new scars recently.” Elias hummed, and Martin could swear he almost sounded _pleased._

“Yes well, hazards of the occupation.”

“Hm. I am curious-”

“Yes, I’m sure you are.” 

Elias’s glare could practically be felt through the walls. Static built in the air.

“As I was saying, I’d be interested in knowing _where those marks came from._ ”

“Don’t you already know?” It was a challenge. Jon almost sounds like he’s smiling. 

“I have to say Jon, I’m disappointed.” (an “oh?” of mock surprise from the Archivist.) 

“Your conduct as of late has me worried. You understand your job is only to _watch,_ ”

“And I assumed that was yours as well.” Followed by the sound of paper being shuffled. “You know, you’ve always been quite good at manipulation. It’s a shame you’re so single minded. Undeviating attention creates _blind spots._ ” 

_????_

Mr. Bouchard inhales, clearly exasperated. “And you were never cut out for the Archivist job, I see.” 

“I think that, depending on who you ask, I was a little too good.” 

_”What did you do?”_ Static again. Martin feels seen, and he doesn’t like it.

The question seems to amuse the Archivist, and he huffs a laugh. “I wouldn’t bother.”  
“You know, I’ve realized recently that spiders aren't all that bad. In fact, as a friend of mine once said- and i’ve come to agree, some of them are rather cute.”

“So you’ve found a new patron then? I find that hard to believe. The Web doesn’t suit you, Jon.” 

“Hm. I don’t entirely disagree. But I’ve found that struggle only makes escape harder.” he pauses. Continues, almost sad sounding. But still pointed.

“Besides. I’d rather Know for a fact that I’m being manipulated, than be sent out following lead after lead, blindly searching for answers. Being forced to _become_ something without my knowing." The words are bitter. A long time coming from the sound of it.

Elias obviously has no response to that, and so the conversation slows. Clearly there isn’t much more to say. Elias has said his piece and Jon has made his point. Meanwhile Martin has long since opened his phone and had his audio recording app running. Carefully remaining still and quiet so his phone mic catches every word of this strange interaction. It’s none of his business, sure. But this feels important. Something is happening here. This is new. He can’t explain it, but he feels the need to document this. Put this interaction down on record. The feeling of being watched is back again, which makes Martin shake his head subconsciously in an attempt to get rid of it.

“What was it like?” Mr. Bouchard asks, and apparently that means something to Jon, because he responds.

“I assume you caught at least _part_ of the statement. I think you can infer the rest.”

Elias clearly wasn’t satisfied, but Jon moved on.

“Really, I would appreciate it if you didn’t ask me any questions. I don’t have the time. You know the state my archives are in, and I _assume_ you still want them organized. Gertrude was a smart woman, lord knows, she was smarter than me... “ he trails off momentarily. “But I find I work better with an organized workspace, and _with_ my assistants. I trust you have no problem with that?”

Grudgingly, Elias responds. 

“No...I will leave you to it. I think we should talk more in the future, however. We still belong to the same God, Jon. Whether you like it or not.” A pause. Martin can imagine Elias’s stiff resolve.

“Hm.” the sound of shuffling paper again. “I’m glad we’re on the same page, for now.

I don’t suppose you could have a co2 fire suppression system installed in the Archives? Just as a precaution, you understand.” 

“I. Will see what I can do. You do understand that I am still your employer.” 

“Of course. And I imagine that _as our employer_ you are at least somewhat interested in keeping me and my assistants alive.” 

“Of course.” Martin isn’t sure he believes it.

“Well then. I’ll see you around I suppose. Please close the door behind you.”

Mr. Bouchard emerges from the Archivist’s office, and Martin rushes to act like he’s been working the entire time. Clearly, it doesn’t work. With a penetrating gaze, Elias admonishes.

“In the future, Mr. Blackwood, please refrain from recording others’ personal conversations. It’s only polite.” 

A condescending smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes (but does show in the creases around them) and he’s gone. 

Was it really that obvious? Martin’s face flushes, embarrassed, and he stands up to tuck his phone back in his back pocket once Mr. Bouchard is out of sight. 

As he sits down he can hear Jon still muttering to himself. Agonized and... kicking his desk? Banging his head on his desk, maybe. Martin can’t quite tell, but it sounds like he’s hissing out something along the lines of “pompous regency ass”.

______________

“That’s weird, right? Like we can all agree that’s weird.” Martin gestures, if a little frantically, at his phone on the booth top from where the recording had been playing. 

“Proper.” Sasha nods. Tim doesn’t say anything, but Martin can tell from the look in his eyes that he agrees. 

“D’you think...I mean. Should we ask him about it?” 

Sasha considers it. Tim takes a deep breath through his nose and breathes out loudly through his mouth.

“I think,” Sasha begins. “I think we should wait a little bit longer. We don’t know what’s going on, right? And until then we don’t know what Jon is up to, or,” she casts a quick, barely noticeable sympathetic look at Tim. “what Jon _is_. I think we should think about it more, try to gather information.” 

“Yeah. I agree.” Tim mutters, head now leaning on Sasha’s shoulder. The low light of the pub is making Martin a little drowsy, even without having had any drink. Clearly Tim, one drink in, is feeling similarly. A steading breath, and Martin nods.“Alright…

Alright.“ 

He decides maybe they should change the subject. They can talk about this later.

Picking up his menu, he levels Sasha and Tim with his best, most convincing smile. “How do we feel about splitting an order of fries?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you for reading!


	5. oh boy it's been a while

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> statements are taken, decisions are made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really really much too tired to write any coherent notes but??? here we are. It's been a while! 
> 
> The next chapter should be up tomorrow, and as always, thank you so much for reading!

It's almost April, and Jon hasn't had to take any live statements yet. Which has been...a relief, frankly. He's still unsure if it would be better to document them himself, or ask his assistants to handle it. Choosing between inflicting horrid nightmares on statement givers, and the possibility of the statements marking his assistants, is not something he feels comfortable making an executive decision on. 

In the end he decides to take the real statements himself, and send the other statement-givers to his assistants. If he limits his sleeping hours significantly that may work? (To prevent the nightmares, he repeats in his mind. To keep others safe. It's not like he's _human_ enough to fully appreciate a good night's rest. He does not address the part of his brain that insists it's because he does not deserve the leisure. His lack of sleep can't _hurt_ others, even if it may not help them, and is only reasonable.)

Of course it's at this moment, when things seem to be so still, established, that Jon is forced to actually confront his decision. To face the reality of what taking live statements means, once again, when Tim ushers Naomi Hearne into his office to give her statement. Almost a year early. 

"Y-you." Naomi startles. "What are you...what are _you_ doing here." 

"I," Jon begins, quite startled himself, and well aware of Tim's watching eyes. Decides to play it off until he can get her to sit down. Until he can get Tim out of the room. He gestures vaguely to the chair across from him, offering her a seat.  
"I have no idea what you're talking about." 

That just makes Naomi draw her eyebrows in and frown. She remains standing. "No, no. You're the one who's been Watching. In my dreams." She buckles down, insistent. 

So much for that. 

He gives in, sighing and leaning back in his seat. No use in denying anything now. He'd been planning on telling her everything anyways, just would've preferred Tim not be here for this part.

He continues, as kindly as he can. "Right, yes. Mrs. Hearne, please take a seat? I'm sure you want answers." 

A nod to Tim, who's still watching, lips pursed in frustration. He wants to know what Jon has to say. Wants to know what's going on. Wants to make sure this woman is alright, because something about Jon and this whole situation doesn't sit right with him. Tim wants to know, 

And Jon stops, 

He's doing it again. Guilt curls in his stomach, outweighing the urge to know, if only for a moment. 

Clearing his throat, and trying to look as reassuring as possible, Jon nods at Tim. "If you could close the door behind you…"  
Tim takes the hint, and with no small amount of reluctance, closes the door to Jon's office with a 'click' behind him. 

Right. 

"Ms. Hearne, if I could-"

"How do you know my name." Ah.

Jon considers what to say. He's going to tell her the truth, of course, but he's not sure what order the words should go in. Or which words to use. Simply watching, and bearing witness to horrors doesn't inherently make you good at describing them. At least, not when confronted with the mundane terror of casual conversation.

At last, and with obvious humor, the Archivist asks; "Would you believe me if I said I was a time-traveling monster _from another world, much like your own?"_

She huffs out a laugh, but is obviously giving it some thought. 

Naomi eyes him up and down, but doesn't comment on his appearance which, well, maybe the bandages and scars give credence to his hypothetical answer. He's not quite the picture of 'the handsome yet rugged adventurer' but he can imagine there aren't a lot of "normal" explanations for why his entire body is plastered with patches. "Honestly? Maybe. It's been a rough week."

"Hm." Jon hums in sympathy. "Why are y-" he cuts himself off. He can feel it, the static that rises like bile in the back of his throat, and he is already starting to see Naomi's story. But he wants, needs, to get it _from her._ Without prying it unbidden from her lips, ideally. 

Carefully, he asks, "May I...ask why you came here? To give a statement, I assume?" 

Naomi nods, "Yes it..well. Hah sorry I, Can't quite find the words to describe what I mean but..." she trails off, clearly more than a little anxious, staring into Jon's mug of pens like it's absolutely _fascinating_. This hadn't happened the last time around, and Jon's not sure what to do. 

With hesitation, The Archivist inquires, "Would you like me to Ask you?" 

He picks at his earlobe a bit as he says it, but his eyes are still on Naomi. Singular, focused. She has a Story.

Somehow, she seems to understand the significance of what he's saying, and breathes out a sigh of relief. She doesn't question what he means by "Ask", just folds one leg over the other and pulls her chair in.

"Yeah, I think that would help." 

"Well then." He sighs, a tape recorder clicks on.

"Statement of Naomi Hearne, regarding the death of her fiancé Evan Lukas, and..?" Jon looks over to her. 

"And...and the dreams that lead up to his death." 

"Statement begins." 

The Archivist sits, every-watching, as Naomi recounts the details of her life. From her introverted tendencies, to the events of her truly disturbing past month. He sits, transfixed, as she recounts the nightmares that haunted her nights, weeks before and after her fiancé's passing. Clouded graveyards, the isolation of mourning. Being dragged closer into and falling toward the open grave, fog licking at her soaked shoes, the damp, cloying air. Waking up in bed, still bathed in the mist, even before Evan's comforting weight faded from their, now her, bed. All the while being watched, looked over by a man with eyes, eyes, eyes. Eyes that bored deep into her, pressing. Eyes that she almost took comfort in, alone in her secluded flat. 

"It was like I could feel the weight of Evan's loss, even before he was gone. I would wake up some nights, clawing at the sheets. Feeling like I should be _terrified_. But I couldn't feel anything. It was like this...this horrible numbness had become a part of me. I think I wanted to feel something, anything. Rage, maybe. _Fear._  
I think I was supposed to feel fear." 

She goes on, details the events of the funeral, how the dreams persisted, worsted, then.

"But the man was always there. It made the isolation more tolerable, in a way. Maybe in that moment I was terrified and stuck and alone, in a tangible sense. But being seen, even by something who just wanted my fear, and I could _tell_ it wanted my fear. Or maybe needed it. But it made the fog lift a bit. I suppose it's hard to truly appreciate the terror of something without experiencing it yourself…" she trails off a moment.

"That was you, wasn't it. The man who was watching me." 

Jon is too enthralled in the statement to give much of an answer, yes or no, but something in his face must confirm what Naomi was thinking. 

"That's what I thought. It's the eyes, you know? They sort of follow you, even when you're looking away." 

She takes a deep breath, "that's ah, that's all." 

Eyes still trained on Naomi, Jon does the same, then turns and mutters "Statement ends." In the direction of the corner of the room. The static dies down. Naomi can feel her ears pop from the pressure. 

"That was.." she begins. Stops. There's nothing to say. Maybe if the steady rainfall on her shoulders and the fog that had gathered at her heels without her notice were, or even could be, wiped away, she might have been crying. As it is, she's still. Numb, but taking slow breaths. Some of the office's natural dryness returns. 

So, Jon tries. "Mrs. Hearne, firstly, my sincerest condolences. Evan sounds like he was a wonderful man." He pauses to let the words sit.  
"And secondly, I'm sorry for.. your nightmares. If I had known, I can assure you that I would've taken steps to prevent them from..happening." he finishes lamely. Even as he says it, he's not sure what he could've done. But he didn't know it was happening and that's, well. Less than ideal. He hadn't expected the effects of past statements to follow him through into this, this time. 

He couldn't have known, and she tells him so.

"Regardless I..apologize." The Archivist takes a moment to shuffle some of the papers on his desk and pull out a pen and pad of sticky notes. "Just know that, whether you find this more comforting than not I..do believe you. And your story. The Lukas family are well-known in the archives, and I'd advise you to be careful. You're not in any immediate danger, however, I would encourage you to seek people out? Join a book club, or, or, something like that. I know from experience that allowing yourself to stay isolated from others is easy, especially when you feel like you don't have anyone in the first place." He clears his throat, eyes downcast. "Or are naturally introverted. I understand what that's like." 

Jon pauses to write something down, and with a final flick of his pen off the page, extends the paper to Naomi. 

"If you find yourself needing help. Or, or company, here's my number." He points with his thumb, still holding on to the paper, to the numbers below. "And if you think you want to seek help, even just temporarily, to talk about Evan, here's the offices of some therapists I'm told are quite good." 

Naomi takes the note with a slight smile, allowing herself to be guided out the door, as Jon stands up and walks around his desk to her. "Thanks. I, It really means a lot." 

Jon can't help the crinkle of his eyes when he replies "of course." 

They pass by the assistant's office on Naomi's way out of the archives, and Jon can feel their eyes on him. At the exit Naomi turns and faces him. (Considers squeezing his arm in thank you. She'd really like a hug right now. Decides against it. This is still a stranger after all. And she's never been the type to initiate that sort of thing. _No_ , not this again, stop it Jon.) 

She smiles. "Thank you again. Really." He just nods. 

"Is it okay if I" and he's never been the type either, but he feels like the embarrassment would probably be worth it. "Would you like a hug?"

He must look silly, standing there picking the lint off his cardigan, but she looks relieved. And she humors him. "Yeah that would be nice, actually." 

They embrace for a bit. And it's weird and awkward, but just a little bit pleasant. Jon hasn't had a hug in so long, and he's certain Naomi could say the same. She squeezes her arms around his shoulder a bit tighter and he leans in to it. Glass melting under extreme heat. 

When the two of them pull back they just smile. "Be careful," he whispers "And remember I believe you. Remember that there are people out there, who are going to care about you one day. People who care about you _right now_. She just nods back. She understands.

And now it's a little bit weird again, because they're still relative strangers, despite the fact that he's stood watch over her dreams for (to him) years, making her recount, relive, the horror and grief that followed her fiancé's passing. Not much to build a friendship on. 

With Naomi out the door, Jon turns to make his way back to his office. His journey doesn't last long, however, as Tim stops him halfway there.

“What was that about, boss? Flirting on the job?" Tim waggles his eyebrows, trying to get a laugh, but Jon just brushes him off. He knows that behind that smile, Tim is suspicious. Tim is afraid. Afraid for his friends, Afraid...of _him?_ Jon tries to not let the pain that thought washes up show on his face. 

"No, Tim."

"Thought you were a skeptic. Seen any particularly nasty monster spiders lately, _really_ convince you?” Tim asks, and Jon freezes.

“Just,” and his voice is ragged. Sad. “Just showing common courtesy, for someone who has clearly had an upsetting experience." And he leaves it at that, pulling his sleeves back down over his arms, and walking away. 

_____________

They've been watching him. Jon knows it. 

He tries, as a rule, to refrain from Knowing things about his..coworkers. Friends. It just doesn't feel right, no matter how he justifies it. But sometimes things, _important_ things just slip through. Like worms slipping between cracks in the institute walls. He shivers.

Besides, it's not like they've been tremendously subtle. With the exception of Sasha, his assistants' increased scrutiny in the past couple days would be impossible to ignore, regardless of how quickly they turn away when he looks back over at them. It hurts a bit but, it's understandable, he supposes. He isn't naive enough to think he could get off suspicion-free just walking back into the archives the- well, the way he is now. Beyond the superficial changes, he knows that he… well, the human mind is quite adept at detecting when something is _off_. Or at least, deciding something is off, based on their perception of what is "right". This Jon is not "right" in this-this _version_ of this world, or this time period. And his assistants have noticed. 

He will tell them! Soon. Letting their suspicion build any more than it has could only make explanation harder in the end. (Something Georgie had pointed out and lectured him on mercilessly the past week.) No better time than the present, and he's sure begging for forgiveness will already be hard enough as it is, without having to justify keeping them out of the loop for _more than a month_. 

Yes, the more he thinks about it, this is a conversation that should happen _now._ Should've happened weeks ago, actually, but there's no going back now. Hah. Naomi's statement was a reminder that things aren't going to be how they were. That change is inevitable, and things are a lot more complicated than he can handle on his own. That he's going to need help. 

The thought alone strengthens his resolve. Yes, tomorrow. Tomorrow, at the latest. He will tell them. Take them out to eat somewhere after work, and lay it all out for them. Tell them about the institute, the Fears, all of it. It's what they deserve.

And as he allows himself to be led out of the institute by a very insistent Martin (with every intention of heading back to the Archives as soon as Martin leaves him at his flat), he feels content, for the first time in a while. He can make this work.

He should've known it could never be that simple.


	6. ;;;;)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ;;;;)))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Im rotten at keeping promises, especially to myself. which is why this New chapter is coming out within the same span of 3 hours as the last one. oh well, thanks for reading!
> 
> accidentally fell into the nebulous tim pov-ish space with this one. enjoy the cursing!

There are no security cameras in the archives. Something Tim and Sasha are grateful for as they stay behind late that night. 

Not for the reason you'd think! 

Okay, a little bit for the reason you'd think (Tim is always partial to some post 9-to-5 making out), but mostly because they had planned to sneak into Jon's office after hours to "do some further research", as Sasha had put it. Tim was just fine calling it "digging through Jon's shit."

Which was proving difficult, because Jon kept ridiculous hours. It was like the man never left the archives. So, they had recruited Martin. 

"Listen, guys, I'm not sure,"

"Don't worry about it. Just go in, make some disapproving faces, encourage him to get some rest, all that." Tim grinned. "Lay on the old 'Blackwood charm'." 

Martin swatted at him as if to say 'stop it, you're embarrassing', but there was a light in his eyes regardless. "I'll do my best, but I don't think this'll work." And so with a long-suffering sigh, he was gone from his desk, making tea in the breakroom. 

"Do you really think Jon will listen?" Sasha raised an eyebrow at Tim, who hummed in a way that was extremely non-committal, and turned his attention back to his laptop screen. 

"You're insufferable. And an idiot." But there was a smile in her voice. He smiled back.

"And that's why you love me. Any more info on," he tilts his head in the direction of Jon's office. Sasha sighs, and lowers her voice when she speaks again.

"Not much? Found some old social media; Facebook, that sort of thing. Nothing you couldn't find from a quick google search. Although I have learned," she pauses slightly for dramatic effect "Jonathan Sims _is_ in _fact_ , in his late 20s, not," Tim makes a face of faux shock, "as one might assume, his mid-40s. Shocking, I know." 

Actually, it was something they had both already known.

"But, nothing really missing from most records. Nothing suspicious.  
I did find photos of his college band, though." She says with a grin, knowing that bit of information will delight Tim. It does. 

"Sasha. You _have_ to send those to me later. " 

She just shrugs, making the same non-commital noise Tim had before, and ignores his pouting. 

They wait. And wait some more. Tim and Sasha smile what they must think is 'discreetly' at each other as Martin opens the door to Jon's office without knocking, warm cup in hand. Tim tries not to keep looking up, for fear of seeming too suspicious, but Jon seems to be smiling a bit. Fond, if he had to describe it. Unaware he's being watched. 

Tim thinks back to what had made him suspicious of Jon in the first place. He'd know the guy for, what? A year or two, maybe. As pretty good acquaintances. And sure, when he first took up the head archivist position Jon was...different. But Tim could chalk that up to a number of things. Him just being shitty and superior now that he was in charge. Him just being stupid insecure, now that he was in charge. Him just being averse to people. Which, hey, fair enough! Tim couldn't relate, but he thinks he understands. A subtle change in behavior then would've been understandable, he thinks. The pressure of work getting to him or something like that. 

But then,

It was like someone had flipped a switch, and Jon had changed again. Beyond just his excessively bandaged arms and face (Which Tim had _tried_ to ask about, because he was _concerned_ , damn it. But Jon had just brushed him off. ) and the small circular scars that dotted his forehead and neck (and they looked almost _healed_ which made the chances that they were injuries he had simply acquired over the weekend...well, not impossible. But highly _unlikely_.), Jon just...acted different. 

Tim was actually worried Jon was concussed, for a while. It all lined up. Leaving work early, let alone taking time off (notably un-Jonlike behavior). Smiling like a dope at the breakroom wall. The unexplained plasters, which lead Tim to believe some horrible accident had occurred. 

But that wasn't it, he could just feel it. Jon had this...presence. In a way he hadn't before. It was like, being around him made you feel _seen_ , but not always in a good way. Sometimes the sensation was physical. Like butterflies in your chest. Except you could really, truly, _feel_ it, and they weren't butterflies, it was sandpaper. It ate away at your nerves and yet still made you tense, looking upwards to find the source of it. 

And yes, Tim was pretty sure he wasn't just into Jon, thank you. That boat had sailed a bit ago. 

It all made Tim a bit irritable, actually. He'd tried to corner Jon and get him to talk about it. He had been concerned for his acquaintance, and boss! But Jon, known vacuum sealed bag of feelings, just wouldn't spill. 

The whole thing had all really come to a head for him when Martin shared that recording with them. Because now that all his fear and suspicion had been justified, he didn't know what to do with it. He felt like a kettle someone had set down precariously on the stove. At some point, he would boil over. But until then he was stuck sitting gingerly on his feelings, on the verge of tipping over.

Tim's been through a good portion of the archives by now. He knows there's statements about people being..replaced. About shapeshifters. Statements about a 'circus'. And he's made connections between the two. And doesn't much like what he's found. 

So, he keeps his guard up around Jon now. He's not entirely sure who he is or, or, _what_ Jon is now, but he'd rather be safe than sorry. 

When Martin walks out, stands near against the wall, and gives them a 'thumbs up', clearly a bit surprised himself, Tim and Sasha look at each other, and nod. Miraculously, it's worked. Martin has convinced Jon to head home. 'Thanks Martin' Sasha mouths with a smile, and the two of them slip back to hide against a wall in the assistant's office, waiting for Jon to leave. 

A bit of time passes, and when Tim catches sight of Jon slipping on his spring coat and following Martin out, he and Sasha hold their breath. 

And then he's gone. The door closes behind the two of them with finality, and Tim and Sasha have their in. 

Thankfully Jon had left his door unlocked, but it wouldn't have been too great a setback anyways. Both Tim and Sasha happened to be quite skilled at the art of lock picking. 

Inside Jon's office all the lights are turned off, which Sasha quickly remedies. For the most part it's...a mess. Files are stacked haphazardly against cabinets, and there's, well. Cobwebs. Like, a truly weird amount of cobwebs. Draped across the ceiling, clinging to the space between Jon's desk and the floor. And Jon _hates_ spiders, Tim knows that. Or at least, Jon used to. Tim wonders if he hasn't noticed, or just doesn't care. For some reason the thought makes him shiver. 

"You got the desk?" He whispers to Sasha, who just nods and pulls a pin out of her hair, making quick work of the top drawer. 

Tim takes a quick look around the room once more, before joining Sasha at the desk.

There's nothing too strange in the drawer, just some cough drops, a bottle of over the counter pain meds, and some pretty standard office supplies. The only thing that really stands out is a paperclip, very deliberately bent in the shape of a heart. Tim and Sasha raise their eyebrows at each other seeing that, and smirk a bit, but move on to the next drawer. 

This one is taller, and full of statements. Both recorded and written. Tim recognizes a few of them from the statement giver's name, and picks them up. Reads outloud, as Sasha keeps digging. 

"Prentiss, Patel, Vittery," He mutters, until he finds one that takes his breath away, like a blow to the chest. 

"Statement of Timothy Stoker, regarding the disappearance of" he swallows, "the disappearance of his brother Danny." 

Sasha stills, and stops her investigation to look up at Tim, whose hands are shaking. He feels a bit ill. 

"What is." All he can do is try and breathe, a task that's becoming increasingly difficult. "What is this."

Sasha doesn't have time to respond, because at that moment their attention is drawn to the sound of doors opening, and the distinct pattern of cuban heels on the floor. Someone else is in the archives. 

Tim, at a loss for what to do, grabs a letter opener from Jon's desk. It's rather pathetic as a weapon, but in the right lighting, maybe he could make it look like a knife? Sasha just stands slowly, careful to keep the floorboards from creaking as much as possible. 

The footsteps draw closer, and the handle in the door turns. Tim and Sasha draw closer together, unsure of a way out.

The door opens, and it's Jon. Because of course it fucking is. Bag slung across his shoulder, 

"Oh, hello Tim, Sasha." The panicked expression on his face is fleeting, but clear. None of them are supposed to be in the archives this late. And they had watched him leave. Tim's "Jon is up to something" meter hits critical levels, and the alarm bells going off in his head will not quiet.

Jon catches sight of the tape in Tim's hand, and frowns. "May I ask why the two of you are going through my desk?" It's not an angry frown. Or particularly defensive, or disappointed. Jon just looks resigned. Like this is bad news he had known was coming, but is let down over anyways.

Tim doesn't know how to react to that. Neither does Sasha. So she defaults to what She knows. Research.  
"Who are you?" It's a question that has been building in her throat for the past few weeks, and now she's absolutely certain that it's the right question to be asking. 

Jon just sighs. "That. Is a very simple question, with a _very_ complicated answer." He looks at his watch. "I hope Martin hasn't fallen asleep yet, he'll have to come back in. This is a conversation we should all have. Together." 

Tim, clearly not satisfied with that answer, interjects. "Whoa no now hold it. If this is your way of gathering us all together and getting rid of the evidence, leave Martin out of it. He didn't know what we were up to." (A lie, but it was worth a shot.) 

Jon(?) just starts a bit, and then laughs, raucous but grainy, like it's the first time he's laughed in years. It isn't a malicious sound. Tim still doesn't ease up on the letter opener. 

With a bit of a smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth, Jon finally regains his composure. "No, I. Well. I know you probably have no reason to believe me, but I really do mean you no harm. Er, the opposite in fact." 

Whatever the hell that means.

Jon drags a hand over his face, and rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands. The picture of fatigue. "Lord, this is not how I wanted this conversation to go. But alright." 

He pulls out his phone from his back pocket, sends a quick message, and puts it away again. 

Seconds later, as if magically summoned, the sounds doors being opened and other footsteps fill the halls. Two pairs of footsteps, it sounded like. This seems to give Jon some pause, and he cocks his head to the side, eyes closed, as if listening for some far away melody. His brow furrows, and he bites his lip. "Huh." 

And then bizarrely, Jon begins to smile. "Huh." He says again, but with humor, relief, consternation, fear, gratitude, joy,  
"Alright then."

Once again, the footsteps are drawing nearer. Jon turns and looks out the open office door, now practically beaming. Tim and Sasha exchange weary glances. Sasha grabs a heavy book to arm herself. Why not. 

Tim's heart is beating erratically in his chest. He feels ready to run a marathon, despite the shaking of his legs under him. He and Sasha take a deep breath, together. 

Neither of them know what they had been expecting. But it certainly wasn't Martin. Or rather, _two_ Martins. 

At least, Tim _thinks_ that's Martin. He's not sure how much trust he's willing to put into his senses at the moment. 

The two stand side by side, still caught in the doorway. 

The man standing behind Jon is tall, and at equal height with his other self, as well as having scruffy facial hair. Like he'd shaved sometime in the past month, but it hadn't quite occurred to him to do so again.  
Or he hadn't had the chance. He's wearing a rugged jacket, and a pair of thick red glasses sits on the bridge of his nose, in contrast with the other, _their_ Martin's thin wiry frames. The man blinks, and for a second Tim could swear he sees three other sets of eyes blink with him. But then the man smiles, and they're gone.  
His teeth though.. Much like the man's phantom eyes, it's blink-and-you'd miss-it. Shining black chelicerae peek out from the corners of his mouth when he grins, until he settles into a simple smile, and they've disappeared. 

Despite all this, the man is not intimidating.

He lets go of his other self, and drapes an arm over Jon's chest, who has turned back around to face Tim and Sasha again, brilliant smile still holding on his face. Jon leans back into the touch, turning his face to press a kiss to the man's cheek. 

Numbly, all Tim can think is "I thought Jon hated spiders".

The man to _that_ Martin's left is the one he knows, standing stock still, and dripping sweat. There's a patch of cobweb on his shoulder from where his other self's guiding hand had been, and he's staring at Sasha and Tim like they're his last thread to reality.

It's all too much for Tim. It's too late at night for this. He should be at home, tucked in bed, not dealing with whatever the fuck _this_ is. He expresses this. Eloquently.

"Right, what the fuck." 

Sasha and Martin concur. 

"Yes, an explanation is warranted. And now that everyone's here.." Jon takes a sweeping look around the room, "we can tell you."

The Martin with a few too many eyes and too-sharp teeth and a bit of a honey-sweet lilt to his voice _beams_. 

"Anyone care for some tea?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, thank you so much for reading, and all the lovely comments :")


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> communication! 
> 
> or something like that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for the kind words? shit dude????? ik it's been a while. Over a month. So, you know. this is me getting back into the swing of writing! Hopefully this reads okay.
> 
> thank you for reading!

Sasha takes the mug offered to her, cautiously, with no intention of actually drinking its contents. Tim outright refuses. 

The man (Martin?) handing them the cups just shrugs, with a 'what can you do' expression, and puts the proffered beverage to his own lips. Grimaces a bit when it's obviously not to his liking. "Your taste in drinks," he says to Tim, "is obnoxious." But he says it with a smile, and turns to set it back down on the counter by the sink and make himself a cup. 

They've moved to the breakroom, the five of them. The man who insists that he's Jon, insists that he's _still_ Jon, and Martin, the one with a guiding presence and the freaky eyes, lead them through the hallway, Jon casting his eyes up to the ceiling every so often, searching. Tim still hasn't lost sight of his letter opener, but has resigned himself to setting it on the coffee table in front of him as he sits. 

Sasha watches the pair warily as they converse. She notes a clawing relief in Jon's eyes as he looks the other Martin up and down. Like he's been denied water for so long, and now, can finally drink. It's a cliche, and not one she would've ever thought to use in reference to Jon. They're smiling, joyous, but there's an urgency behind it. They only have so long to get caught up.  
As Jon paws at this other Martin's chest and presses kisses to his (surely uncomfortable, she winces a bit in sympathy for Jon) almost-beard, Martin leans in. "You didn't tell them." His tone is something. Admonishing, Sasha decides. They're familiar with each other. In a way she can't even begin to imagine Jon and Martin being. Actually. That's a road of thought she doesn't want to go down. 

"Yes well, I, I, er. I _was_ going to." Jon turns to address all in the room at once, sheepish, "tomorrow, actually. I just. Didn't see this coming." The Man still standing by his side laughs disbelievingly, clearly more than a little disappointed. "Jon." 

"I know! I know. But you're one to talk, where have you been?" At the look on Martin's face, Jon sighs, and he retacts his question. "Right, sorry. I'm sure you have a perfectly good excuse. Care to explain?" 

They share a knowing look as Martin mutters "Helen." As if that makes any sense. "Ah." And apparently to Jon, it does. 

"Will she be...joining us?"

"No, no. I don't think so. She said she might be around though, so…" Martin smiles. "Well, you know how she is. "

"Yes. Yes I suppose I do." The grin Jon flashes in return makes Sasha feel like an intruder.

"Is he," and the man glances up, much like Jon had in those hallways, "going to be a problem? Because I can," 

Jon interrupts him mid-sentence, the corners of his mouth turned up in a slight smile, before Sasha could find out what _'Martin can'_. "No, Martin. He should leave us alone. At least for now. He knows about me, however." He pauses to concentrate. "I think..I think he can't See you. I'll do what I can for the others but..." Jon trails off with a shrug, clearly having said all he could. The two stand there again, apart, but looking as if with one slight push they'd just fall and fold into each other. 

Tension hangs in the room, and Sasha wants nothing more than to cut through and get to the meat of it. She wants answers. 

"Right, sorry." Martin, _Sasha and Tim's Martin,_ finally speaks up after a while. "Who are you, what's going on, and where is _Jon?"_

The man who had been calling himself Jon seems a little bit wounded at that, pouting in an 'un-fed cat', and ' _I'm Jon_ ' way, but seems understanding enough. And prepared to provide explanation regardless. In the corner of Sasha's vision, Tim leans forward on his knees to listen. 

"There's really no simple way of explaining this," the man starts. "I think the only way for this all to make sense is to start at the beginning."

He pauses, and takes in a breath, seemingly exhausted just at the thought of having to speak. The dim breakroom lights reflect oddly against his face, shadows breaking up and clearing in ways Sasha is almost certain shouldn't be possible. It's not disorienting or anything like that, it's just... off. 

As wrapped up in tracing the lines of his shadow with her eyes as she is, Sasha almost misses the distinct sound of a tape recorder, clicking on. 

"Martin and I," and Jon nods to the man standing beside him, avoiding eye contact with _their_ Martin, "are from what could, within reason, be called 'the future'". 

Tim snorts from his tense sprawl on the couch, and Sasha just looks over to him, frowning. Not quite in a _warning_ , certainly, but she wants to hear what they have to say. Needs, practically. This is something that has bothered Tim and Martin all month, and she just doesn't _know_ enough. She needs to know more. 

Tim’s skepticism doesn’t throw the man off, he just nods and continues. "Martin here," he gestures, "was supposed to join me, from the beginning.

The 'beginning', being even before any of us took up jobs in the archives. The goal was to prevent any of us from being hired, and in doing so, prevent the end of the world as you all know it." 

Jon looks around the room once more. "Clearly, things didn't go to plan."

Everyone remains looking on intensely, so he continues.

"There are resources I can provide you with; Statements, etcetera, that may help clarify what I'm about to say, and I can provide you with those as soon as I have time to record. But, for now. Er, to, give you a basic idea. Essentially, there are beings in this..world, I suppose. That feed off of fear. Or rather, they _are_ fear, if you want to be more precise." Jon pauses, again.  
"In practice, the difference isn't of much consequence.  
Some consider these beings to be Gods, and take to them as acolytes. There are religions dedicated to individual Fears. In fact," Sasha notes Jon's posture as he glances upwards again.  
"This building could conceivably be referred to as a 'temple'."

"Basically," Martin cuts in, "we're all caught up in a cult." 

"Yes. Thank you Martin." Jon replies sardonically, a smile hanging on his face.  
"The Magnus Institute is dedicated to feeding what some have dubbed 'the Eye'. 'Ceaseless Watcher.' Broadly, the fear of being watched. Though generally, other fears can feed the eye." Jon clears his throat.  
"Fear is fear is fear, in a sense. That's what the statements are. The real ones. Er, I know at this point we haven't gone through many of the statements, that we'd only just started recording?" Jon raises an eyebrow, looking for confirmation, apparently.  
There's some awkward silence, but everyone nods. 

"So you might not have noticed. But with statements you don't see a whole lot of 'I met a man made of nothing but cannibalistic beetles, and had a fun romp around the village'," the playful lilt of Jon's voice as he does his best 'children's storybook hour' is amusing, Sasha decides.  
"It's all about Fear. Of which there are," His face pinches. " _arguably_ , fourteen." 

"Boss, hang on." Tim interrupts, rubbing circles into his jaw.  
"You say there are people that _serve_ these fears. Gods, _whatever._ "  
Jon, and Martin, nod.

"That's us, right?" 

The question seems to strike Jon, who shuffles on his feet slightly, clearly much more uncomfortable than he had been moments before. 

"Er, yes. As employees of the Magnus Institute. Or of the archives, in particular, Our job is to catalogue the fear of all those who come to give their statement." He gestures around vaguely. "The Archivist's job is to make the statement-giving easier." 

"Among other things." He mutters.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Martin asks, somewhat hysterically from his metal folding chair. 

"Not important right now," Jon tries to brush it off, but Martin. The other Martin, interrupts.  
"Elias,"

Jon shoots him a warning glare, and something passes between the two of them. Martin pauses. 

"The head Archivist position is...something of a ritual. If that makes sense. All that you need to know- is important, is that," he's shaking slightly, Sasha notes with concern. Lip trembling, Jon seems to be gathering the strength to say what needs to be said. 

"The world ended. The world as you all know it, anyway. Which sounds horribly dramatic, I know." He takes another deep breath. "And that was what Elias wanted. Had been working towards. The Archivist…"  
Martin's there behind him, holding his hand.  
"The uh, Archivist was. An important piece of that plan. It wh. Hm." The self deprecating laugh that breaks out of Jon tugs at something in Sasha's gut. Both Martins' eyebrows furrow in concern, and she shares a look with Tim. Jon's head is down, shielding his face, and the bandages plastered up and down his arms are peeling away. Sasha watches as, unconsciously, and with a whimper, Jon pulls up the sleeves of his jumper. Revealing un-bandadged skin. And countless blinking eyes. 

"The world ended. And it was my fault."

**Author's Note:**

> If I've stolen a line or concept from your magnuspod time travel fic? I genuinely apologize, it was not intentional. At this point my brain's just a big poorly-mixed soup of tma time-travel fix-its, so sometimes you end up tasting the standalone ingredients more than you would like to.
> 
> we'll see what happens with this because, as I like to mention every time I post something here, writing is not my main passion, and I am notorious for never properly drafting a work before I dive into it. 
> 
> hope you enjoyed this? please leave a comment with feedback, spelling errors, etc. If you feel so inclined. I can't describe how much I appreciate any and all comments :]


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